"Courtney, you've got to stop fidgeting behind Twitch," a silver-haired Englishman bellows, hands cupped around his mouth like a bullhorn. "I want smiles!" The six dancers I've been watching stomp and slide across an L.A. soundstage all morning nod obligingly at the choreographer's request and begin their routine once more, their grins so convincing that you'd never guess this wasn't the first take. This is the last day of filming for the first So You Think You Can Dance? fitness DVD, and the stars—Courtney Galiano, Stephen "Twitch" Boss, Katee Shean, Dmitry Chaplin, Lauren Gottlieb, and Travis Wall, former finalists from the Fox hit show—are running through the grand finale, which combines a medley of moves that they'll also present in step-by-step tutorials.

"You should dance along with us from the sidelines," suggests Dmitry, the snake-hipped Russian with a penchant for baring his chest, as he cha-chas past me during a break. I try desperately to shrink into the background. It's not just that I'm afraid that the tangle of cables and light stands and human traffic around me will trip me up, nor am I simply reluctant to shake my groove thing in a room full of professional groove-thing-shakers. I have a bigger problem: I'm absolutely convinced that I can't dance.

I've always been an avid music lover, but I tend to be moved by it only in the emotional—not physical—sense. For years, I've loitered in the corners of clubs and parties, nursing drinks and faking nonchalance while I wait for friends to return from the dance floor; at concerts I rarely do more than tap my toes, stoically enduring knocks and blows from other people's more liberated butts and elbows. I have danced at a wedding or two, once champagne has rendered me insensible to shame—and wow, it's been fun. But moments like those, when I don't care that my rhythmic expertise might be best compared to that of Seinfeld's Elaine Benes, are few and far between. Mostly, I keep my two left feet planted firmly on the ground.

So what am I doing, a few weeks after visiting the SYTYCD set, in a Manhattan dance studio, preparing to take a swing class? Well, for starters, I've become swept up in a cultural obsession: I was among the 22.5 million who tuned in to the eighth Dancing With the Stars season premiere in March; I think America's Best Dance Crew might be the best thing on MTV since Martha Quinn; and I'm far more excited than a grown woman should be about the upcoming Fame and Footloose remakes. Watching all of these effervescently bendy people has made me come to the conclusion that it's high time I got over being such a wallflower, and witnessing Dmitry et al. strutting their stuff for the fitness DVD made me wonder if perhaps dance might be a way to jazz up my exercise routine (or lack thereof).

My biggest hang-up about going to the gym is that it bores me senseless: Those treadmill TVs give me motion sickness, so I'm left with nothing to do but stare dully at the slow-moving digital distance-tracker and fantasize about cheeseburgers. Dancing, however, engages the mind as much as it does the body: The process of learning new steps involves parts of the brain that control imitation, empathy, quick decision-making, coordination, spatial judgment, and rhythm, sparking the production of fresh connections between nerve cells. And not only does this improve memory and mental agility, but a recent study published in The New England Journal of Medicine showed that people who dance frequently also reduce their risk of developing dementia by 76 percent (doing weekly crosswords will only get you 47 percent). Add this to the fact that dancing, like any aerobic exercise, unleashes a flood of feel-good endorphins and can burn just as many calories as jogging or swimming, and you've got a pretty compelling argument to get out there and bust a move. I mean, if something can make me happier, skinnier, and smarter, why wouldn't I want to try it?

However, swing doesn't go so well. There aren't enough men to go around (ah, such is life), so I end up paired with a fiftysomething woman with a severe bob and clammy hands. As the instructor bids us to "rock step, triple step, triple step," we trample all over each other's feet and avoid eye contact. The footwork is fairly simple, but it nags at my brain like a complex mathematical equation: I just can't get it. I feel better when I remember that Twitch, Courtney, and Travis told me that ballroom (which includes all the partner dances such as swing, waltz, tango, etc.) was the most difficult genre they've tackled. Even someone as preternaturally elegant as Paulina Porizkova looked utterly oafish during her first fox-trot lesson on Dancing With the Stars. Unfortunately, choreographed dance requires a combination of things I've never been good at: coordination and short-term memory. On the upside, I find that I'm so busy concentrating on the steps that I forget to be self-conscious. Thanks to my remedial ineptitude, I barely break a sweat in swing (although once you get cooking, the dance can burn about 235 calories an hour), which is a little disappointing for someone hoping to get a proper workout.

Erin Fogarty, a former ballerina who is now marketing coordinator for the new Manhattan Movement & Arts Center, suggests that I try belly dancing—something, I must admit, that I've always imagined to be more an exercise in humiliation than actual exercise. "People who have been doing it for a while have control over their abdominal muscles like nothing I've ever seen," she says. "It's a very feminine way of building your core—you get a toned shape without losing your soft contour. Plus you don't have to worry about your body type, which is a real confidence builder." It also rates high on the calorie-quashing stakes, wiggling off up to 380 an hour. Sign me up!

The other ladies in my class have clearly been at it for a while: They arrive wearing sequined hip scarves and are capable of rotating their midsections and shaking their glutes with sensuous ease. I, meanwhile, manage only to convulse erratically like someone trying to stabilize herself in an earthquake. "Boobs, belly, hips, knees," we chant, successively pressing the body parts in question against a mirrored wall; then, arms up and hips a-shudder, we freestyle, advancing across the room like a squadron of spangling worm-women. "Where are you swimming to, princess?" teases the instructor as I try to seductively undulate my elbows. She shakes her head in mock pity, adding, "You need to unlock those hips!" Yes, yes, I nod in fervent agreement. But where's the key?

Surprisingly, I think I find it in a hip-hop class. I expect to be even more than usually ungainly at this one: I'm not really a fan of the music (alas, no one offers Boogie to Bowie lessons), and I'm pretty sure I lack the requisite Miss-Jackson-if-you're-nasty sass. But the party atmosphere quickly wins me over: The instructor walks us through short choreographed sequences ("Punch right! Punch left! Frame your face!"), which we repeat enough times that I actually get them down, and then we string them together. It's like being a back-up dancer in a Justin Timberlake video. Sure, there's a crossover step that my feet go wonky on, and maybe I don't exactly shake it like a Polaroid picture, but I am doing pretty damn well—and, even more importantly, I have a blast. Despite the fact that I've been in constant, panting motion for an hour, I don't feel nearly as worn out as I do after, say, riding a stationary bike, which makes sense: Music has been shown to distract athletes from registering signs of fatigue (that's why working out with an iPod—ideally blasting tunes with 120 to 140 beats per minute, the speed of most high-energy pop, techno, and hip-hop songs—can extend endurance by about 15 percent; and yes, ABBA's "Dancing Queen" falls in that range). Now I grasp why a group of ELLE staffers regularly attend hip-hop dance classes at a studio near our office: This could become seriously addictive.

Throughout my subsequent successes and failures—I find the Bollywood-worthy Masala Bhangra a breeze, imagining myself cavorting to the closing credits to Slumdog Millionaire; I flee both theater jazz and tap under the auspices of getting a drink of water when students are asked to dance solo; I successfully swing upside down from a swathe of fabric in an aerial dance class taught by a former Cirque du Soleil performer, then can't lift my arms for two days—I sense myself growing not only more lithe, but also more relaxed. Friends who have danced for a while tell me that I will begin to develop muscle memory, which is what happens when steps begin to feel natural because the brain has already mapped them out, and sure enough, somewhere in the middle of a Zumba class at my gym I stop having to watch what everyone else is doing in order to keep pace. This might be because Zumba, an intense cardiovascular workout based on a fusion of Caribbean, Latin ballroom, Latin hip-hop, American hip-hop, and African dance, which is said to promote lean muscle mass and burn up to 700 calories an hour, incorporates so many moves I've already learned. However, I prefer to think it's because I've finally caught on to what Patrick Swayze meant in Dirty Dancing when he told Jennifer Grey, "The steps aren't enough. Feel the music."

I never thought I'd say this, but I love to dance. I can't believe I've been missing out on it for all these years. Sure, I still don't know my merengue from my meringue; when I hear "salsa," my first response is "I'll get the chips"; and I think terms such as open position and ball change sound like directions better suited for the bedroom than the dance floor. It'll take a lot more time before I'm able to pull off fancy footwork with any real competence or grace, but now I know that's not the point. It's about opening up and letting go. I'm even emboldened enough to dance in social situations outside of class—at the next party I go to, I expect to be the one eagerly dragging my friends onto the floor. From here on, I'm going to make sure that nobody puts me in a corner—least of all myself.

RHYTHM NATION

These DVDs made the final cut. See how well they perform

By Jodi Belden

DIRTY DANCING: OFFICIAL DANCE WORKOUT

The '80s dance cult classic that put Baby and her toned torso center stage has inspired a DVD combining down 'n' dirty moves with a cleaned up country-club-worthy mambo.WHY PUSH PLAY: A daily fix of hip-grinding thigh-tighteners and leg-shaping cardio put to Motown hits such as "Love Man" and "Do You Love Me" will get you fit for a summer fling.BUY IT: $17, walmart.com

BYOU(2)

East meets West in this ultimate dance remix, which features Bollywood sensation Rujuta Vaidya (who provided moves for Britney's "Circus" tour) and uses choreography by Fatima Robinson, the mastermind behind videos for Prince, Rihanna, and Fergie.WHY PUSH PLAY: With the help of split screens, replay options, and host Sabrina Bryan (The Cheetah Girls, Dancing With the Stars), we had backup-dancer confidence.BUY IT: $15, amazon.com

SIMPLY TAP

With a stomp of approval from the legendary Liza Minnelli, Germaine Salsberg breaks down the basics with a teaching style she developed working with Broadway hoofers.WHY PUSH PLAY: Even the rhythm-impaired will find themselves shuffling off to Buffalo like Ann Miller. Plus, intricate footwork promises shapely calves and long, defined stems.BUY IT: $20, bobrizzo.com

ELEMENT: BALLET CONDITIONING

As a former principal soloist for the Virginia Ballet Company, Elise Gulan shares the secret behind the beautifully delicate but powerful bodies of classically trained prima ballerinas.WHY PUSH PLAY: The soothing music and traditional barre workout hones lean limbs with challenging reps that require stamina and grace. All you need is a chair and bare feet.BUY IT: $15, amazon.com